Chapter 1 #3
Hammer ignored the comment. Two hundred pounds of muscle earned through Delta Force training and three years of wildland firefighting wasn’t something you hid under civilian clothes.
But Mack was right about one thing—the boy who’d run away after that final confrontation with his stepfather was gone.
What sat in this truck was a man who’d survived things that would break most people.
“Besides,” Mack continued, “we’re not stayin’ long. Just lunch, and then I want to drive out and see Dad.”
Dad. Hammer let the word sit. Not his dad, of course. His dad was buried in a corner of land that time had forgotten. Next to his mother, but she’d come later, after he’d left Renegade.
But Mack’s dad was still alive and probably terrorizing whatever woman was unfortunate enough to be in his orbit. Except now he was Mayor Alden Jenkins, with a title and so-called respectability that made Hammer’s skin crawl.
But of course Mack wanted to see him. Because apparently Mack had a super-short memory. And a whole lot of forgiveness.
Not Hammer, thanks. “We’re not going there, Mack.”
“He’s my father.”
“He’s a monster.” The words came out flat, final. The same tone Hammer used when ordering a crew to evacuate a fire zone.
Mack’s jaw tightened. “That’s not how I remember it.”
“Because you were eight when I left. And you don’t remember the exciting parts. You remember the guy who taught you to throw a baseball and helped with homework. That’s not the guy I knew.”
He left out the rest, but it went something like, not the jerk who’d beaten Hammer bloody every time he’d gotten mouthy. Mack had been too young to understand why Hammer always had bruises, why he’d started spending so much time at the Blackwood ranch.
“Maybe he’s sorry. At least, that’s what he said to me.”
Hammer just stared at him, the words gone.
“We eating or arguing?” Saxon opened his door, letting the October air sweep through the cab. “Because I’m starving, and that place smells like bacon.”
South Eagle Police Station sat three buildings down, followed by the fire station, both modern brick structures that looked out of place among the weathered storefronts and carefully preserved historic buildings.
An EMS truck was parked outside, rear doors open, paramedics unloading equipment.
Hammer cataloged the scene automatically—serious call, not a routine transport.
The kind of emergency that got everyone’s attention.
“Looks like excitement,” Saxon observed, following Hammer’s gaze.
“Hope everyone’s okay.” Mack’s voice carried genuine concern. He’d always been the one with the soft heart, even as a kid.
They pushed through the diner’s front door, and Hammer was immediately transported back in time.
The renovation had been done with care—the original bank’s high ceilings and stone walls provided a dignified backdrop for the classic diner fixtures.
Red vinyl booths lined the windows, chrome stools sat at a lunch counter that might have been salvaged from the 1950s, and the smell of coffee and grease filled the air.
“Sit anywhere you like, boys.” The voice came from behind the counter, where a woman in her sixties was refilling salt shakers. Gray hair pulled back in a practical bun, coffee-stained apron tied around a sturdy frame, hands that spoke of thirty years slinging hash and pouring coffee.
Hammer knew those hands. Knew that voice.
Dolores Simpson. Dolly to everyone who’d ever sat in one of her booths. She’d worked at the café when Hammer was in middle school, always ready with a sympathetic ear and an extra piece of pie for a kid whose home life was complicated.
“Back booth okay?” Saxon was already heading toward the corner, where they’d have a clear view of the street and multiple exits. Old habits.
Hammer followed, keeping his head down, hoping ten years and sixty pounds of additional muscle would be enough of a disguise. But when Dolly approached their table with a coffee pot and three mugs, her steps slowed.
“Heaven Almighty!” She nearly dropped the coffee pot on the table. “You’ve got to be kidding me!”
Nice. Now the entire world knew about the resurrection of Rowan Wallace.
“Rowan Wallace. I thought you were dead.”
Yep, the diner went quiet. Conversations stopped mid-sentence, forks paused halfway to mouths, and every head in the place turned toward their booth.
Don’t. Run. But yeah, his legs were itching. “Ma’am, I think you might have me confused with someone else.” His voice stayed level, controlled, but Dolly’s expression didn’t change.
“Don’t you ‘ma’am’ me, Rowan Sean Wallace. I changed your diapers when your mama brought you in here as a baby. And Mack—look how you’ve grown up.” She grabbed a napkin and wiped the table where coffee had spilled.
She wiped her cheek with the back of her hand.
“It’s okay, Dolly,” Hammer said softly.
She looked up, met his eyes. “Oh, your mother would have been overjoyed to know you came back.” She looked up. “See, Maggie? I told you. He’s not lost.” She even winked as if she might be speaking through the unseen veil.
And now he couldn’t move, his throat tightening. “Yeah.” Not lost. That might be an overstatement.
“I’m sorry for the shock.”
“Shock? Honey, shock doesn’t begin to cover it.” She wiped her hands on her apron, studying both their faces like she was memorizing every detail. “You both look good. Older, bigger, but good. Healthy.”
“Thank you.”
“Your mama would be so proud. God rest her soul.” She turned to Mack. “And your daddy—well, he’s gonna be beside himself when he hears you’re back.”
Hammer looked away.
“We’re going to stop by the ranch later,” Mack said, shooting a glance at Hammer.
“You should do that,” Dolly said. “He’s got an office in the town hall. Keeps regular hours, Monday through Friday.” She paused. “Though I reckon he’s gonna want to know about Rowan here. Last I heard, he was real torn up about losing him.”
Hammer could be ill, right here. More likely the jerk was relieved that his biggest threat was out of the picture.
“Dolly, maybe we could keep this between us for now?” Hammer kept his voice casual. “We’re just here for a day, and I’d hate to cause a stir.”
“Course, honey. Though word’s gonna get around anyway. You know how this part of town is. I’ll get you some waters. Or do you want a root beer?” She winked.
He smiled. Nodded.
Saxon had picked up a menu. “What’s good here?”
“Everything. But if you want my opinion, get the green chile cheeseburger. Best in three counties.” She leaned in. “Never mind the chicken fried steak sign.”
Saxon raised an eyebrow as she disappeared into the kitchen. “She’s interesting.”
“Yeah. Our mother’s best friend,” Hammer said. And shoot, he could hear his name being whispered, spreading through the diner like wildfire.
“Well,” Saxon said, settling back in his seat, “so much for keeping a low profile.”
“I was hoping for a little more time before everyone found out. By suppertime, half the county will know we’re back.”
“Wasn’t that the point?” Mack said. “I mean—now that Sanchez’s father’s been found, the charade is over. The Trouble Boys can come out of hiding. Wasn’t that the point of coming back—to check on Sierra? To make sure she’s okay after losing her grandfather?”
Saxon grunted. Set down the menu. “Not so easy not being dead anymore.”
No duh. Because of course, Hammer’s thoughts went immediately to Sierra. How did a guy tell someone he’d abandoned that he’d been alive for three years while they thought he was dead? How did he explain that he’d let her grieve, knowingly?
A man approached a table next to theirs, lean and athletic with dark hair and a badge clipped to his belt.
Detective, based on the shield design. Early thirties, with sharp eyes and the kind of confident bearing that came from military or law enforcement training.
Clean-shaven, with an easy smile that didn’t quite mask the watchful intelligence beneath.
He pulled up a chair and settled in with a weary sigh. “Hey, Dolly. Coffee when you get a chance?”
“Course, Mike.” Dolly appeared with a fresh pot, filling his mug without being asked. “You look beat. Long day?”
“Getting longer by the minute.” He took a grateful sip. “Thanks.”
“That EMS truck outside earlier—everything okay?” Dolly’s voice carried the kind of concern that came from thirty years of knowing everyone’s business.
“Missing hikers. Search and rescue found them about an hour ago, both suffering from exposure. They’ll be fine, but it was touch and go for a while.” The man rubbed his forehead. “But that’s not the worst of it. They found a body up there too. Near the Wallace place.”
Hammer’s coffee mug stopped halfway to his lips.
“A body?” Dolly’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Who?”
“Tom Hendrick. Looks like he was shot.”
“Oh no, not Tom.” She covered her mouth.
“I know. The chief drove out personally to talk to his wife. Sierra Blackwood found him.”
“That poor woman. Hasn’t she been through enough?” Dolly shook her head. “You make sure you find the killer, Detective Martinelli.” She walked away.
The name, the entire conversation, hit Hammer like a physical blow. He set down his mug carefully, keeping his expression neutral. But was Sierra in trouble?
“Shot?” Saxon leaned forward slightly. “Hunting accident?”
Detective Martinelli glanced over at their table, seeming to notice them for the first time. “Sorry, didn’t mean to include you folks in police business. Just been a whopper of a day.”
“No problem,” Hammer said, his voice steady. “We couldn’t help but overhear. You said this happened up by the Wallace place?”
“You know the area?”
“Used to,” Hammer said, lifting a shoulder. “Haven’t been back in years, but I remember that old house up there. Surprised anyone was out that way.”
“Tom Hendrick was asking a lot of questions lately,” Dolly said, refilling Detective Martinelli’s coffee. “About mining rights and such.”
Detective Martinelli shot her a look. “Dolly—”